


Intransigent

by DormantAllure



Series: Sisterverse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Episode: s01e02 The Blind Banker, Friends to Lovers, Holmes siblings at university, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Post-The Hounds of Baskerville, References to Drugs, Romance, Sherlock's Past, Sickfic, Unrequited Love, battle over Sherlock's soul, the third holmes brother, will they or won't they
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:52:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2170101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DormantAllure/pseuds/DormantAllure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the third Holmes sibling turns out to be female, John is in for more than a few revelations concerning Sherlock’s past, present and perhaps even future. Unlike Mycroft, Octavia Alice Sherrinford Holmes is convinced that her youngest brother is both capable and deserving of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It started with a kiss. Or it would have, had Sherlock Holmes just once in his life been like normal people. In the end, John never could figure out how he’d managed to contract mononucleosis – colloquially known as the kissing disease – despite his misgivings about physical contact with strangers. Sherlock, on the other hand, was quite convinced it was due to that incident when John had grown tired of queuing for a taxi on a Friday night in Coventry and made Sherlock take the tube with him. 

Usually Sherlock was quite adept at hiding his symptoms until the point of collapsing from blood loss or something else equally life-threatening. This time the truth was evident right from when they arrived at the latest crime scene – as soon as Holmes had opened his mouth to spout out his usual condescending lecture about police incompetence all present noticed that his regular, sharp tenor voice had turned into something resembling an old vinyl recording being played at half speed. Also, he was looking a bit pale and light-headed. And his eyes were glassy. Later that evening, after a triumphant apprehension of a murder suspect and the subsequent resolution of a case, Sherlock was not his usual giddy self. Instead, when John enquired about a late night cardgame, he’d merely stated that he’d decided to retire to bed early. He didn’t look too bad, though, so even if alarm bells were going off in John’s mind he decided he would wait until the morning before engaging Sherlock in a match of wits to get him to consent to coming to the surgery with him.

It was as alarming as his sudden need for slumber that had Sherlock quite easily agreed to a clinic visit. He’d graciously submitted his arm to the lab technician for the blood tests and then proceeded to pass out on the waiting room floor. After the feat of getting nearly two metres of clammy and feverish consultant detective onto a gurney, he came to and frantically removed most of his clothing, indignantly complaining that he the thermostat was on too hot a setting. John occupied himself with starting an iv while Sarah took a cursory look. 

“Any history of liver problems or hematological issues?” she enquired after a bit of poking and prodding. 

Sherlock blinked, trying to get his eyes to focus. “Not that I am aware of.”

Sarah turned to John who was wiping sweat of his own forehead. He looked a bit rattled. Sarah knew of John’s flatmate’s tendency to ignore bodily functions until they threatened his work. “Spleen’s big. And I mean big as twenty centimetres and the liver’s come down to well below the ribcage.”

John eyed Sherlock carefully and then proceeded to feel his neck. The patient swatted his hand away, grunting in apparent agony. “Huge lymph nodes, too. I think it’s Epstein-Barr. Throat been acting up lately?” he asked, tone betraying that he knew the answer already. He felt Sherlock’s forehead. “You’re burning up. We’d better get you home.”

Sherlock looked annoyed. “Home? Are you not going to fix it?”

Sarah smiled. “We can’t ‘fix it’, as you so eloquently put it. It’s a virus. It’ll run its course. Fever’ll probably last you a couple of weeks.”

Sherlock stood up, now thoroughly indignant. “Weeks? That’s unacceptable. The trial for the Warrington case is next Monday, and Lestrade’s asked me to ----“

John crossed his arms. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re not leaving the flat and running after criminals until you’ve beat this. I’m not taking any risks while your spleen’s like a balloon of blood about to burst into your abdominal cavity.”

Sherlock did what any mature, reasonable adult would have done, faced with a similar predicament. He pouted and sulked all the way home and then banged his bedroom door theatrically after refusing John’s offering of tea and an anti-inflammatory.

 

 

For a few days Sherlock was mostly docile, swaddled in an assortment of blankets in front of the television and yelling – or more accurately, rasping and barking – at soap opera plotlines. John was quite impressed with his self-control for a change. A fever reaching to forty degrees, and a generalized fatigue must have played a part. It was on the fourth day that the manic fiddling with things, whining and claustrophobia began setting in. It was quite clear that fever or no fever, Sherlock was waiting for a moment when John was away to slip into his coat, go outside, and wreak havoc.

Sherlock having a hiatus on cases would dig into their pockets quite severely. John couldn’t keep away from the surgery for the whole duration of this pestilence so he decided to inform Mycroft of his brother’s plight. Usually he answered after a few rings – or his secretary did. This time, however, John got his voicemail. There was a prerecorded message in Mycroft Holmes’ droll tone and John was about to put down the receiver, but paused when he heard himself being addressed.

“And if this is Mr Watson calling concerning a Mr Sherlock Holmes, do await further instructions which will arrive quite shortly at your present location.”

Some sort of contingency plan, then. Activated by John’s mobile number. He couldn’t bring himself to be surprised. Nor could he be bothered to get riled up over this invasion of privacy. It was amazing, the things he’d gotten used to since moving to Baker Street. The least of them was definitely not the whiny voice coming from Sherlock’s bedroom, demanding John to come and pick up the socks Sherlock had thrown on the floor.

 

 

The further instructions did arrive shortly – in the form of Mrs Hudson leading up a visitor. “You boys decent?” she hollered, not bothering to wait for an answer before opening the door and showing in a woman in her late thirties. She wore a pantsuit, conservative jewellery, her heels on the bit of a high side. She was attractive, decided John, not in a traditional beauty queen sense, but in a sharp, formidable way. She was tall, with facial features that reminded John of someone. Usually it was Anthea who delivered Mycroft’s messages. This was no secretary, John deduced. The air surrounding her was way more ‘take charge’ than ‘take orders’.

John stepped closer. From the upstairs bedroom there was a loud thump as if something had been thrown against the wall. John decided to ignore it for once.

Mrs Hudson slipped out, muttering about something being on the stove. She knew Sherlock was ill, and knew perfectly well the servitude that demanded from all parties present. The woman did have a sense of self-preservation. John sighed.

The dark-haired woman stepped properly into the living room and placed her handbag onto the floor. She extended her hand. “John Watson, I presume?” She seemed curious, not actually smiling but looking inquisitive.

John nodded and shook her hand. “And you are?”

“Octavia Holmes.”

John raised her eyebrows. “Holmes? Sherrinford’s wife, then?”

The woman laughed. “Not exactly. I’m Octavia Alice Sherrinford Holmes. Sherlock’s my little brother.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m Octavia Alice Sherrinford Holmes. Sherlock’s my little brother.” The woman smiled somewhat apologetically.

John stuck his hands in his pocket. “Alright then, well, what—“

“Mycroft.”

“Oh. Tea?”

“You aren’t going to ask why Mycroft Holmes would send me to babysit his grown man of a brother even though he’s got a flatmate?”

John laughed. “I’ve learned that he likes being in the know about Sherlock. And since I quite brusquely refused to be his mole—“

Octavia raised her eyebrows. “He actually requested this?”

John headed to the question to find some cups and shot a glance at Octavia from behind his shoulder. “I did think he was some sort of a nemesis of Sherlock’s at that time, not his brother.”

Octavia settled down onto the couch, carefully moving a pile of Sherlock’s papers off it. “Mycroft would be flattered. Don’t tell him, though.”

“Probably doesn’t need any more ego boosts, that one. He already fancies himself something of a master spy.”

“Translation: my brother is a pompous ass.”

“Which one?” John shot back. 

They both chuckled until Octavia cleared her throat. “Still, if I were you, I’d wonder why you suddenly couldn’t get hold of Mycroft and then the third Holmes shows up out of the blue.”

“Mm.” John was busy measuring the tea leaves. “Darjeeling alright?”

“I like mine a bit heartier but it’s fine, really. It’s really hard to get a decent cup of tea in Havanna.”

“You live in Cuba?”

Octavia yawned and stretched. “I run a smallish resort on the coast. Used to live in Ontario. Trouble is, it’s part of the commonwealth. I prefer privacy, meaning I can’t abide my brother running my life like he’s clearly still running Sherlock’s.”

“What makes you say that? Mycroft is capable of making his life quite complicated, but still.”

Octavia took the steaming mug offered and sipped. “His life would be complicated, yes, if Mycroft would allow him to actually have one.”

John was taken aback. “What do you call this, then?” He waved his hands around the apartment. “He chose to live here. He got cleaned up. He invited me to share the rent. He’s got a career—“

“Who sorts his finances?”

“They don’t really get sorted.”

“Does he have a job? Not one he’s made up for himself?”

“No, but—“

“You think he’s employable?” Octavia ran a hand through her hair.

“For that he would have to abide by some sort of rules and schedules, so no.”

“You do the cooking, dishes, and general tidying up around here?” 

John nodded.

“You do his laundry?”

“No.” John looked triumphant.

“Good for you—“

“That’s the indispensable Mrs Hudson.”

Octavia raised her brows. “Life of a bachelor, eh?”

“I still don’t think Mycroft actually runs his life.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that. Not sure if Sherlock would want me to share all the details, though. Let’s just say the boys’ sibling rivalry has taken some nastier-than-average turns at certain points.”

“What about you, then? What made you return?”

“Mycroft sent me a plane ticket by courier. He called me and said that he’s been dispatched to Kuwait for the time being to sort out some work-related crisis. He mentioned something about Sherlock having EBV or whatever acronym it was. He told me he’d ‘very much appreciate it if I could come here and assist you in making sure Sherlock doesn’t exert himself too much’. I was on holiday and even though I really don’t think I need to be here and definitely don’t want to indulge Mycroft, I decided it was time to see my baby bro for once.”

In John’s opinion the quote had Mycroft’s teethmarks all over it. “He’s got mono, nothing worse. Could last quite awhile, though. When did you last meet?”

“I think it was about seven years ago. We’d all graduated, I was offered a job and decided it was time to head out on my own. Sherlock driving you mad yet?”

John sighed. “God, yes. I actually look forward to work to get some time off from cooking him meals he never eats, running around fetching him things, fending off calls from potential clients, listening to his incessant whining if the fever’s spiking up or endless rambling about some inane subject if he’s feeling better, and tackling him every time he’s trying to sneak out. I’m considering hiding all his shoes next.”

For some reason Octavia looked a bit sad. “Get him some popsicles. He loves those, since he can pace, hold a book, and eat one at the same time. Plus he can’t really take breaks since it melts. “

John laughed. “That makes sense.”

“Why do you do it all, then?”

John was silent for a moment. “He’s my best mate, why wouldn’t I?”

“Acting Jeeves to his Wooster isn’t really something every best mate would put up with. Best friend? He’s not had many, you know. Friends, I mean.”

“That’s what people keep telling me. He can be a bit-- abrasive.”

Octavia put down her cup. “You don’t have to be diplomatic with me, John. I know exactly what he’s like. And what he’s capable of. He’s not what Mycroft wants people to think. I love Mycroft, he’s my brother, but I don’t think we’ll ever see a day when he would actually try to promote any sense of normalcy or independence in Sherlock.”

John finished his tea as well. A faint snoring could be heard from upstairs.

“It’s four p.m. He really must be sick, if he’s napping at this time of the day.” 

“If you want to see him I’ll sure he won’t mind---“

Octavia touched John’s arm to keep him from heading upstairs. “No, it’s alright, I’ll see him later. I’m still fascinated by all this and want to pick your brain some more. Any place close by where one could get a decent meal?”

John grabbed his coat, smiling. Picking brains would be mutual that evening. 

 

 

An hour later, Octavia Holmes was nearly choking on spaghetti. “They seriously flew him out to the palace in just a sheet?!”

John swallowed down a mouthful of wine. “Swear to God. You should’ve seen Mycroft’s face. He looked like he was about to pop an aneurysm!”

“At Oxford he had a habit of walking in on me and my then-boyfriend.”

“A habit? He was probably just so wrapped up in whatever he was thinking to register any noises.”

“No, no, it was quite the opposite. He took the noises as a positive sign that I was in my room and not occupied in anything important! Once he barged in because wanted to borrow Craig’s library card because he’d lost his own.”

“And wouldn’t leave until he got what he wanted?” John guessed.

“Damn right.”

“Still, I can’t quite figure out why he hasn’t mentioned you much. You had some sort of a falling-out?”

“The git probably thinks my sex, for, instance, is irrelevant information since I live overseas. I had a falling out with the Holmes brothers’ show, yes, but not Sherlock per se. I was much closer to him than Mycroft ever was, but at one point I had to decide whether I was going to continue to waste my time entangled with that thing or get a life of my own. I do regret not being here for the first few years – I never realized how deep Sherlock would sink after Wilkes. That’s one thing I’m grateful to Mycroft for sorting Sherlock into rehab, which luckily turned out to be successful. Even though he did have a hand in creating the whole situation.”

John’s fork stopped. “Sebastian Wilkes? What are you on about?”

Octavia was surprised. “You know of him?”

“I’ve met him. Had a case a while ago. He contacted Sherlock. I think they were classmates at Oxford or something.”

Octavia tapped her lips with a napkin. ”John – You seem awfully nice and it seems you have built some sort of a rapport with my brother since he’s remained agreeable to you two living together. Still, what happened with Wilkes is something that would require explicit permission from Sherlock to disclose.” 

John was slightly disappointed but could appreciate Octavia’s grave tone. “I figured there was more to it. Won’t pry, though, if you really think Sherlock wouldn’t want to discuss it.”

“If you value your friendship, don’t ever mention it. And you really shouldn’t give Mycroft too much credit. While his hovering may seem endearing and benign, it is anything but. Sherlock is his pet project. Sherlock’s lows emphasizes his highs. The worse he’s off, the better Mycroft’s going to look. Sherlock has what he didn’t – the looks, the brains. Even though Mycroft likes to behave like Sherlock is Salieri to his Mozart, it’s plain as day it’s the opposite. He’s more dependent on Sherlock than vice versa. He needs Sherlock to fuck up every once in awhile, so he can be the saviour.”

John seemed to be mulling over this quietly. 

”I always was the normal one. I had to leave. With Mycroft and Sherlock around, who’s going to notice the academically average, neurotypical sister.”

“You sound bitter.”

“True. Still, I had it way easier than those two. Wouldn’t have wanted to trade. Mycroft has always done quite well, since his talents lie in social skills and diplomacy. Sherlock never had that to compensate for his, well---“

“Sherlockness.”

“Exactly.”

 

 

 

John stood outside the door in the hallway, trying to keep quiet. The intriguing conversation that had taken place some hours earlier had piqued his interest in what a Holmes sister-brother reunion would entail.

“Alice.” Sherlock’s tone was tentative but warmer than John would have guessed. Perhaps that acidic way in which Sherlock usually reacted to Mycroft had affected his expectations.

“I mostly go by Octavia now.” The bed creaked. She must’ve sat down. John felt a bit guilty for eavesdropping, but considering all the inconsiderate things Sherlock did in his presence he figured this would not begin to even the scales.

“Still hate hugs?” Octavia teased. A grunt that sounded quite a bit like Sherlock. 

“Good. Then you’re definitely getting one.”

Coughing, a book drops onto the floor. Octavia must’ve made good on her threat. John chuckled. 

“You can let go now,” Octavia reminded a few minutes later. John frowned.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Don’t ask so I won’t have to lie. I know John’s listening. I can see the reflection from the flickering half-broken light in the stairwell is dimmer than usual so he is bound to be standing between the cupboard and the stairway railing.”

John froze but decided not to move. That would confirm Sherlock’s deductions. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“John’s nice,” Octavia offered. There was no reply. “If you don’t mind, I think it’ll stick around for a bit. Have some things to sort out in London and I might go see mum and dad as well. I’d love to see a bit of what you do nowadays when you start feeling better if you’re up to it.”

“DI Lestrade is bound to be drowning in unsolved crime while I am incapacitated. I’m certain we can find something to occupy our time once John stops incarcerating me. Did you go somewhere this evening? Your bag was left in the apartment so you must’ve arrived sometime in the afternoon.”

“We went to dinner.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “A date?”

Alice shot him an amused look. “No. Not a date. I only met him today, remember. People don’t go on dates five minutes after they introduce themselves.”

Sherlock sat up, looking indignant. “Some people engage in intercourse with people they have met mere minutes prior.”

“Am I one of those people?”

“I would wager no, although I have no data available as to whether your level of virtue has altered since our last meeting.”

“No, Sher, I haven’t become some huge slapper while I was away. And I doubt John’s one of those either.”

“I have heard him being referred to as -three continents Watson-, the exact connotation of which is irritatingly vague. Do you think it a geographical or anatomical reference?” 

“If this is the type of stuff that what goes on in that noggin of yours, you haven’t changed a bit, baby brother.”


	3. Chapter 3

It was not a good morning for Sherlock. His fever had passed, but the fatigue John had warned him about threatened to force him to turn on his heels halfway down the stairs and back to the comfort of his bed. Even his mind seemed to be on a slower gear – it was as if he had to pause at every door to fiddle for the right key before getting into the required trivia bit in his mind palace.

And it didn’t help that he now had two people in the apartment to be vigilant about. John he could handle – he was fairly set in his ways, and mostly oblivious to the more subtle happenings of the universe. 

His sister was another matter. It was strange seeing her after such a long absence, and Sherlock was having difficulties in deciding how to relato to her. It was her, but somehow not exactly. People changed, grew, were traumatized by the terrible things that happen to every human being at some point. Alice did not seem as close as they had been back then. She was one of the few good things about the times that he liked to think he’d put past him. Sometimes they came back to irritate him. Like Sebastian Wilkes with his snotty tie, smug smile, pretentious office, subtle clues of overcompensatory promiscuity and a barely-in-control cocaine habit. Sherlock wondered whether John had realized to any extent that Sherlock had so yearned to throttle Wilkes with his ugly tie the very second they entered his office. Well, at least he had the satisfaction that he could have. 

He had to keep vigilant. If he didn’t, Alice might give John a glimpse into all those things that he liked to keep hidden. His failures. His greatest deficiencies. Some of which John knew of, but not how he’d once worn them on his sleeve instead of going on the offence before anyone else had the chance to notice them.

And worst of all, Alice, dear, sweet Alice, who had never lost confidence in his ability to learn and to find something beyond an existence of science, work, and notoriety, might try and convince him that he could have more. So much more. If he just dared to try and put his mind to it. Or maybe not. Maybe the opposite? Just forget himself for a second? Stop overanalyzing things?

Never. He had once risked everything for something as fleeting, irrational, and counterevolutionary as feelings and he would not be so pedestrian as to err twice in the same game. 

Still, he had to admit it was good to see her. For a second Sherlock wondered if he might pick her brain like he used to at university to get some aid in analyzing certain things, certain behaviours of John’s that he was somewhat unable to understand or decipher. Or some of his own.

No. Stop it. Focus. 

He took a deep breath and slouched downstairs, wrapped in a sheet. He’d left his trousers downstairs. Maybe John had taken them to the laundry pile. Drat. He’d have to ask John to fetch him some fresh ones. Couldn’t be bothered himself.

He was surprised to find the kitchen table surrounded with people. Alice was nursing a cup of tea, John was spreading crumbs all over the floor with his toast-making and DCI Lestrade (Graham? George? Gulliver? Irrelevant.) was standing by the sink, rinsing a mug. 

Sherlock felt slightly underdressed for the occasion. He slumped down onto the couch.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” quipped Lestrade.

“Mm.” Sherlock turned on the television. The news. Something about a flower fair in Greenwich. Delete immediately.

“We agreed to let Greg in since you’re feeling better. He’s promised to behave and not drag you out into the rain.”

The tv was immediately switched off. “Case?” He had not dared to hope. John had put his iron fist down and since he was now able to team up with Octavia Alice, Sherlock did not bother to argue. He’d spent the past week mostly in his bedroom, occasionally wondering down to engage in small talk with Alice or partake in John’s attempts at cozy evening meals. If he hadn’t been so bloody tired he would’ve died from boredom already. 

A few nights ago, he’d caught an exchange between his sister and his flatmate. They were discussing him. He didn’t like it. Alice knew better than to overindulge in any embarrassing stories – at least that’s what Sherlock hoped since any sibling of Mycroft Holmes could be expected to value their privacy and honour. John, on the other hand, wrote a bloody blog about him. “Spectacularly ignorant”1” That one was never going to be forgiven.

Judging by the faint occasional clinks of glass, they were drinking wine. Sherlock’s congested nose had already cleared enough to allow him a whiff of tannic acid and sulphuric terroir. Red then. 

“Have you noticed how he looks like he’s having a brainwave when he catches himself experiencing some sort of feelings?” Alice was smiling, judging by her tone. 

“Apart from bored, irritated, angry, indignant, riled up or downright manic?”

“I meant towards another human being, John.”

John mulled over this for a moment. “True, actually. He looks both a bit disappointed and somewhat fascinated at the same time.”

“He watches all that carefully. Doesn’t like it.”

“Has he always been like that?”

Alice’s tone was now more serious. “No. He used to be just slightly cautious, not completely closed-off. He’s been trying to live by the credo that he doesn’t need anyone, that relationships of any kind are beneath him like he’s some new step in human evolution, but that’s not how he was born. He used to be fascinated by anything he couldn’t understand and would strive to learn everything about it. He was most frustrated to realize that there was one field of study, one science that completely eluded him – social interaction. Mycroft tried to convince him it’s a good thing.”

 

“Sherlock gave me this speech back when we met, that he considered himself to be married to his work, that relationships were not his cup of tea. The way he behaved with Irene Adler actually spoke of the same – I think he saw her more as an equal, a challenge, a riddle to be solved, than a potential girlfriend.”

“Irene Adler? That’s the one you wrote about in your blog post?”

“The very same.” A sofa cushion fell to the floor by the sound of it. Sherlock shifted his balance and a floorboard creaked. John and Alice luckily were engrossed enough in their dialogue not to make anything of it.

“I really can’t picture it, my brother falling for a dominatrix.”

John sighed. “He was actually kind of mean to her at the end. She did beat him up with a riding crop, drug him and embarrass him a few other times.”

“I think you must’ve left the more salient details out of your post, John.”

“That I did. I have to live with him, you know. I’d like to keep breathing. Though I think Mycroft would get to me first.”

“You’re wise not to trust him. Mycroft’s brilliant with people – that’s how he got to where he is, but totally ruthless. I actually think it’s him who couldn’t hold any kind of healthy relationship. He does seem to fair quite alright without such nonsense, as he puts it. I, on the other hand, tried to help Sherlock out with all of it. Be a bit of an interpreter. I tried, but I couldn’t go everywhere with him, translate everything people did or said. I wish I could have. Still, unless I became his full-time assistant or something, he was going to have to learn some things on his own. I’m sorry he had to do it with such drama.”

John plonked his glass down. “You keep referring to something that happened back then, before you left. But won’t tell me exactly what. We’ve been through some tough times, me and Sherlock – are you absolutely sure it would change anything if you just told me? I’m pretty damned sure he won’t.”

At that point Sherlock had cleared his throat and walked downstairs, unable to stiffen a yawn. “Your incessant prattling is making too much noise. Isn’t it high time Alice headed back to the Dorchester?”


	4. Chapter 4

“‘The Lost Lover’ – that is pathetic, John, even by your blogging standards.” They were sharing a taxi with John riding shotgun, Sherlock in the backseat, and Octavia next to him. 

“And how would you, in your infinite wisdom, have phrased the headline?”

Sherlock spread his hands in frustration. “Why must everything always rhyme, John? Harmonic end syllables are so elementary. Why don’t you try a limerick for a change? A tanka? Oulipo? Pantoum? A nice rondeau or a sestina?” 

“Alright, alright, we are very impressed with your vast knowledge of literary forms. Now shut up or start your own blog.”

“I do have a blog, which you are well aware of.”

“And judging by your guest counter, people like my pedestrian poetry way more than your inane lists.”

“Alright, boys. There’s plenty of space in the world wide web for both of you.” Octavia adjusted her skirt. John huffed, and surprisingly, Sherlock kept his mouth shut.

John had been slightly surprised at how easily Sherlock had agreed to take his sister along to a crime scene. Sherlock liked spectators to his circus, but mostly those who could offer him praise instead of getting under his skin.

John had now had ample time to observe this intriguing thing between them – the subtle ways in which Octavia corrected, guided and coaxed Sherlock. The amazing thing was that he responded. Unlike with most people, he didn’t fly off the handle when contradicted, didn’t lose his marbles when admonished for bad behaviour, and did not lash out when gently teased about his peculiarities. Still, as comfortable as their exchanges were, Sherlock seemed rather cautious of John and Octavia discussing anything pertaining to himself. John had a hunch it might have something to do with what Octavia was not disclosing. Still, John had no business putting his nose all up in Sherlock’s past and if that was now it was going to be, then he’d best just stifle his curiosity.

Sherlock got them past the tapeline by simply telling Lestrade that if all three of them were not allowed to enter he would turn on his heels and return to Baker Street. Lestrade had muttered something in the lines of ‘we can actually get by without you, you know’, but that was moot since they had already called him in, which meant they were completely lost with the case.

Anderson was on holiday but Donovan was in fine form, refusing to tone down her insults even in the presence of new civilians. John caught Octavia biting her lip as though trying hard not to say anything when she overheard an exchange of insults between Sherlock and the sergeant.

As usual, Sherlock breezed through the case after just a cursory look at the evidence. He quickly lost patience with the corpse, and instead focused on how the family photos were or were not organized, and what the deceased’s eyelashes had looked like in them. In no time at all, he’d deduced that the homeowner’s wife had killed him when she’d walked in on his crossdressing, and tried to make everything look like a burglary gone wrong.

John was frantically making notes for his blog. Sherlock was beaming, sipping a cup of hot tea from a nearby café as they were waiting for a complimentary ride back to Baker Street in a police car. John looked up from his notebook for a moment, and noticed the look on Octavia’s face. She looked concerned. No, not concerned, worried. So very worried, and her eyes did not seem to leave Sherlock for a moment.

 

 

Balliol College, Holywell Manor Dormitory, Oxford University, 10th October 1998

“It would make your life somewhat more leisurely, if you would cease projecting yourself onto Sherlock. He doesn’t know how to handle these things, not like you do.”

Octavia shook with rage, digging her nails into her palms to keep from grabbing the nearest heavy object she could find and hurling it towards Mycroft. “You fucking idiot. You think this is about me? What’s so different this time that you won’t stant up for him like you always do otherwise?!”

Mycroft huffed indignantly. “Well, at least you aknowledge that. I’ll have you know I’ve tried to spare him from such a scene by telling him over and over again that caring is not an advantage and if he wishes to survive in the world he will have to learn to control his urges.”

“Look who’s projecting now. He’s not you. He doesn’t have that switch you flick every time feelings and such rubbish inconvenience your plans for world dominance. He feels, Mycroft, and it’s way too much for him.”

Mycroft clearly was not convinced. He sat down on his desk chair, straightening his tie. “If this is how he needs to learn them I am sorry for the harshness of the lesson, but it was necessary.”

Octavia blinked away the moisture that was threatening to turn into tears. “What the hell did they do to him, Mycroft? The clinic has had to put him on suicide watch, and now they tell me he’s dropped out and disappeared. You. Were. There. What in God’s name did they do?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Can’t say I was present for the entire proceedings, but it was nothing more than a regular hazing. Nothing of a sexual nature, if that is what worries you.”

Hot tears stinging even worse now, Octavia wrung her hands. “He’s in love,” she sighed, aware that her words fell on deaf ears. Bloody psychopath, his brother. Mycroft, not Sherlock. Watching on the sidelines as his kid brother was beaten black and blue just because---

“Was in love. I doubt he is now. And I doubt he really was to begin with. A boyish crush, an experiment, what have you.”

“You can’t just flick a switch and ---- It was not a bloody experiment, if he dared to confess his feelings to a mate of yours.”

“A straight mate, I might add,” Mycroft offered somewhat condescendingly.

Octavia shot him a rotten look. “You know well as I that Sebastian Wilkes is the very epitome of a closeted gay with tendencies to overcompensate for the fact.”

Mycroft did not reply.   
Octavia slumped down onto Mycroft’s dorm bunk. “What now? We need to find him! They’ve no idea where he might’ve gone.” He looked at Mycroft pleadingly. “I think we have to tell Mummy and Daddy.”

Mycroft stood up. “Tell them what? That their youngest is a university dropout suicidal queer with a coke habit and mood swings to match a pregnant woman?”

Octavia’s reply was the sound of the door banging shut. That had been the last time she’d spoken to Mycroft Holmes on her own initiative.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was now effectively driving them both insane, so Octavia was relieved when John suggested she accompany him to the library. It had now been three weeks since she had arrived. Her brother was on the mend, but DI Lestrade - who turned out to be quite intrigued by the arrival of a third Holmes (she had politely turned down his offer for a dinner and a movie since she had no desire for either a fling or a long-distance thing) – did not have much to offer in terms in cases. John still had not taken down the announcement for work hiatus from his blog, perhaps because he was worried Sherlock might begin to overexert himself right away. 

That left them with an idle, fidgety, whiny, irritable Sherlock who had decided to occupy his time with concocting the sort of experiments in the apartment which Octavia had no stomach for. 

John, on the other hand, was quite unaffected by Sherlock’s antics. He almost seemed to consider them something akin to endearing. 

John Watson. Octavia had not the keen psychological eye of Mycroft nor was she as adept as reading tiny clues as Sherlock, but it was clear that there was more than met the eye to this man. He seemed like a mild-mannered, domestic veteran, but judging by his sharp wit, loyalty and devotion to Sherlock evident in the contents of his blog, he was a friend anyone would be happy to have. He’d killed a man for Sherlock just days after meeting him. Not many people would do that. Come to think of it, Octavia couldn’t come up with anyone apart from immediate family. Why on God’s green earth would someone like John have jumped head-first into the Sherlock show?

And a show it was. Gone was the shyness that had pervaded his teen years. In its place was this iron veil of arrogance. It was as though Sherlock had stopped trying to control his short attention span, his lack of patience for people, all of what had always irked him. All that he had at least tried to bear to some extent when he was still trying to be a part of humanity instead of giving it the proverbial finger with every insult that spewed out of his mouth. Octavia was glad he had found this confidence, but despised the cold, calculating nature of it.

It was nothing short of amazing that John acted as though he didn’t even notice. Idiot, Sherlock called him, and John either said nothing or replied in kind, but his tone was not mean but amicable, like the playful jibes mates usually shot at each other over a pint. It was as though he was unable to truly get upset with Sherlock’s ways.

John had shared with her the way in which her brother had behaved in Dartmoor. That was the only time so far that John had been severely offended by Sherlock’s lack of courtesy. At least Sherlock had been affected by John being upset and had offered an apology of some sorts. 

Even when Sherlock was at his worst, John could see the best in him. And the only explanation that Octavia could muster was love. It was a whole other thing, however, whether John Watson was prepared to face what was happening. This was, after all, the man who had deemed it necessary to proclaim his heterosexuality in his blog at every opportunity.

Her hypothesis or something beyond friendship was further strengthened by what she had observed Sherlock do, say, act when John was around. And that was what worried her. Very worried.

She’d only seen her brother like this once. It was during those weeks in Oxford, prior to The Incident, as Mycroft had nonchalantly dubbed it. 

Their visit to the crime scene had been the last straw. John had been busy chatting with Lestrade, busy with making notes, busy doing Sherlock’s bidding when he wanted a body inspected or a trash bin rummaged through. Sherlock, however, was mostly occupied with watching John. True, he solved the case and did so swiftly. But Octavia was well aware that her brother’s mental prowess was formidable enough to juggle his attention between two important things at once, more prominent of which clearly was John Watson. She wondered if John really failed to notice the looks, the leaning over the shoulder closer than was necessary, the tiny touches here and there.

Maybe John had taken Sherlock’s little lecture about being married to his work at face value and just thought that it was normal for Sherlock, weird Sherlock, to be weird about personal space as well.

It wasn’t. 

If Octavia was right, and if her brother was as deeply, hopelessly, and completely in love with his flatmate as she suspected, then John Watson had no bloody idea of the bomb he was holding in his hands. 

Octavia wondered round to where John was registering his new loans. “Anything interesting?”

John smirked. “I grabbed a couple of John Le Carres plus a few Ian Flemings for Sherlock to dissect.”

“I hope you don’t mean literally.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him. Destroying my library books wouldn’t be the worst he’s ever done to my stuff. We really should get him a case. Or at least ban Molly from giving him any more body parts.”

“I should meet this Molly. She sounds ever creepier than Sherlock.”

John laughed. “I don’t think anyone who’s met Molly would describe her like that. She just likes helping him out, that’s all.”

“They’re not involved, then?”

John was taken aback. “Heavens, no. Although it’s not exactly due to Molly’s lack of trying. Sherlock is… most unresponsive to things like that. To people.”

Octavia smiled slightly. John had no idea, it seemed.

She had two options. Walk away. Or try to help Sherlock out just one more time in the one thing that he was so terrible at: asking nicely for what he really wanted.


	6. Chapter 6

Pointing his bow at nothing in particular, Sherlock tried thinking about the average shapes of scintillating scotomas (would have prevented Mrs Halley from seeing that the fridge was unplugged – must text Lestrade), the evolution of lemurs in Madagascar, the varying iron percentage of gunpowder residue, the nomograms of bodies cooling in damn, forested areas.

He still. Could. Not. Concentrate.

Oh, the humanity. Was this how distracted most people tended to be? 

His attention was fleeting at best. Even the presence of a person not favourable to his whims could ruin his thinking. And there was always someone. Idiots, neanderthals, elephants in porcelain shops. It was amazing, the the amount of cretin rabble that was allowed into the police force nowadays. 

And even with their collectively dismal mental capacities, they dared to laugh at his idiosyncrasies. Which he tried to block out, but couldn’t. Mycroft was wrong and right at the same time. Caring was not an advantage, but neither was it something he could just proverbially toss in the Thames because it was interfering with his ambitions.

John’s laugh was not malignant. It was contagious. Endearing. For a second it could make Sherlock believe that he did not need to take himself so bloody seriously all the time.

Sometimes even John was serious. He had his triggers. And Sherlock was certain the…Thing… That his sister had been audacious enough to address, was one of them.

Sherlock knew better than to challenge the claims of someone as fervently insisting to be heterosexual as John Watson.

Now he wished he hadn’t chased his sister away. She could have provided insight into probabilities of different reactions, different outcomes and perhaps provided advice as well for the unlikely scenario that taking all this up with John would not end in immediate disaster and increased need for rent money.

He had heard Alice’s parting words for John, could imagine his confused look afterwards. “Take care of my Sherlock, John. And please don’t break him. Whatever you do or say in the next 48 hours could be the end of him.”

This proved Alice did not know the present Sherlock. Did she think that after their ridiculous dialogue and what ifs and maybes he would go and throw himself at John? He had kept quiet, discreet and careful for two years, why would he suddenly not be able to?

Bloody siblings. Not like he needed another Holmes poking their nose into his business. His most private business. First there was Mycroft who was adamant that most of humanity was worthless and it was a privilege not to have to participate in their mundane interactions. Then there was Alice, who after thirty-plus years on the planet still believed that most people were quite alright and that it would do Sherlock much good to indulge in relationships with at least one of them.

Sherlock now regretted the harsh way in which he had sent her on her way. She’d wisely chosen her planned departure date to dish out some honest advice. She had not said much. But like a good sister, she’d chosen the exact words that would chink his armour and leave him reeling.

“John is not Sebastian Wilkes. You have everything to lose, but so much more to gain. And he would never,” Alice had drawn a quick breath to have enough to particularly emphasize her next words,”NEVER do to you what he did.”

Wise enough to see a classic Sherlock tantrum brewing , she had pecked him on the cheek, turned on her heels, and headed downstairs towards her waiting taxi.

Sherlock was tired. Thinking usually did not do that to him. When he dealt in facts and puzzles, that it. This was different. Most intrusive and hateful.

He would keep the status quo. He’d rather choose stagnancy than risk the trapdoor into darkness that he knew rejection in John’s face would look like.

 

 

Despite his decisiveness, Sherlock’s behaviour betrayed him. John realized it before he himself did. 

Days after Octavia had departed John began to realize something was amiss.

It was funny, really, how he’d never much registered all the small things Sherlock tended to do on a daily basis, until he did them no more.

Straighten his shirt. Pat invisible breadcrumbs off his lapels. Grab his sleeve. Lean onto him on the couch. Stand so close at a crime scene John could feel his breath on his cheeks while he launched into an enthusiastic lecture about the facts, the deductions, the case, his own brilliance.

He’d always thought this to be just a strange behavioral byproduct of Sherlock’s brilliance. Or was it just that he didn’t want to read anything more into it? If there was nothing to it, why’d he stopped.

Maybe he was thinking these things because of what Octavia had had for him as parting words. “Tread carefully, John Watson. You might be what either makes or breaks him.”

At first John had dismissed her as another person who had grown fascinated by tabloid insinuations of their relationship. The most recent one in a long line. What was wrong with people?

Still, sometimes he got to thinking – before he had the mind to stop himself from nurturing such ridiculous notions – where all this came from. As a doctor and then as a soldier John was used to seeing people say one thing, then do another. 

‘You might be what either makes or breaks him.’ No one would say that about friends, about flatmates or work colleagues.  
John was straight. He liked the ladies. 

‘Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man.’  
‘Can we be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?’  
‘If you’ll be needing two bedrooms.’  
‘Someone loves you.’

John sighed. It was apparent he and Sherlock were in some kind of a relationship, and it seemed to have nothing to do with arcane concepts of straight or gay, courtship, dating, boyfriends or girlfriends. He was not sure whether Sherlock was aware of this relationship to any extent. Or if Sherlock would ever bother or dare to do anything about it. And if he did, John was even less certain how he would feel about that. Perhaps he was not ready to let go of all these arcane concepts, labels and categories yet. Which was quite shameful, since he preferred to spend most of his waking hours with a man who actively defied all of them with triumphant glee.

Life with Sherlock was complicated enough as it was. He would not explore this. He would keep the status quo. If only Sherlock and his meddlesome, arduous siblings would let him.


	7. Chapter 7

John was reaching the end of his rope. First it was being sick that was driving Sherlock up the wall, then it was not being sick but being without a case. Now they had cases – several good ones, actually – but even that did not seem to level down Sherlock’s nervous energy.

John had gone through his mental checklist of all the usual things: no drugs in the apartment, no cigarettes, no nicotine patches, not even the odd cup of coffee. Sherlock was preoccupied, always fiddling with things, disappearing from the apartment on a regular basis ‘to get some air’, as he always explained, but getting air did not seem to be of any use. There was banging of doors, exasperated sighs, plucking of the violin strings so hard that John had been sent to the shops to get more catgut. 

Sherlock had stated on several occasions that John’s presence and output helped him to think. Now that did not seem to be the case.

“Can’t you just go?” comes Sherlock’s resigned baritone from the kitchen as John is trying to concentrate on his newspaper.

“Mm. What?”

Sherlock is leaning onto one of the kitchen chairs, six feet of resignation and theatrical exasperation. “Library, Shops. Movies. Whatever it is you people do.”

“We people.” John is annoyed enough to consider whether to let this slight go unaddressed or evolve the conversation into an argument. “Why?”

“I. Can’t. Think.”

John puts down his newspaper, folding it carefully onto the table. Sherlock fiddles with a dirty mug someone had abandoned on the table. 

“You can’t think of what?” John is at a loss. It was not unusual for Sherlock to be in a foul mood for reasons most irrational, after nine days it was starting to get on John’s nerves. Some thought him a saint for putting up with this man. Sometimes John felt they ought to go ahead and canonize him indeed.

Sherlock gazes up from the table and slumped down onto the chair. “I can’t think when I’m not alone.”

John clears his throat. Something bothers him about this conversation, but there is no way to stop it now. “It didn’t bother you before, me being here. What’s changed?”

“I find myself preoccupied with things unrelated to the work. Unrelated to my pastimes. And for some reason I can’t seem to shift my interest away.”

John leans back into the armchair cushions. “Away from what?”

Sherlock does not reply, but the look he gives John speaks volumes. It’s not as different as his usual looks, but now there’s a hint of something different, something John has rarely seen before. In Dartmoor it had been artificially produced. Now it’s genuine.

Was there a hint of doubt, of apprehension, of fear in there?

Sherlock shakes his head. His disheveled curls cover his face from John’s line of sight.

John is glad for the pause of conversation. He needs time to prepare, time go mull over all the possible ways in which this could go, all possible outcomes. At least that’s what Sherlock would do. If he looked like he had his usual mental aquity intact. Now he just looks a bit confused. Younger than his years. Suddenly John can’t stand him looking so forlorn in the kitchen. He walks in to join him and carefully settles down onto the opposing chair.

“Sherlock.”

He doesn’t look up. Fiddles with his lapels. Doesn’t bolt, though. That’s unusual, John decides. He says nothing until John gives his sleeve a tug. “Mate, hey.”   
“Goddamned meddlesome women,” Sherlock mutters under his breath and visually examines John’s fingers still attached to his shirt sleeve. He looks up. This is freefall with no signs of stopping.

Finally, Sherlock looks up and John knows. 

Somehow he knew this day was going to come. That his girlfriends were nothing but conquests, something to pass the time before things got so very real. An exercise in futility to help him come to terms what had been inevitable – and evident from the start to everyone but himself – right from when he first set his eyes on this man.

He also now understands very acutely, what Sherlock’s sister meant. Even if the minutiae of Sherlock’s past still remained something he was no privy to, he had been able to gauge that Sherlock had been here before, and things had not ended well.

Here. Where John held in his hand both a fragile but bright future of them together, and also the potential for the utter destruction of this man.

Sherlock is looking at him. Truly looking. Not just staring at him in annoyance or expectation of favours or praise. Really looking. Waiting. Expecting. His expression is a little withdrawn, as though unsure of what he has gotten himself into.

Wordlessly, John leaves the chair, circles the table. He feels oddly calm. All the banalities he would have imagined would be going through his head at this very moment are gone – no nervousness about what he’s about to do to someone who’s his friend, someone who’s not a woman, someone who’s a man. Sherlock transcends all these silly semantics. There’s too much as stake here to get hung up on silly rubbish.

John crosses the distance between them. 

“It’s you –“ Sherlock finally blurts out, but the rest of whatever he was about to say are drowned as he is pressed against John’s body. And it’s perfect. And easy. And it should have happened such a long time ago already.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for making it this far. You have earned yourself some silly Baker Street fluff.

There is kissing. And like he is with everything, Sherlock is relentless. He seems as though someone abandoned on a desert island with no human contact for years. He stalks John around the apartment. And John lets him. He lets Sherlock do all sorts of things he never did before. And it’s all more than fine.

Mrs Hudson is the first to find out. It goes rather naturally, even. She’s been convinced of their courtship for years, after all. It doesn’t take much more than John’s arm snaked around a sleeping Sherlock on the couch to get a knowing look and an offer to lower the rent if she could reclaim the other bedroom as linen storage.

Molly gives John a hug. And it seems genuine. John doesn’t tell her he’s sorry even if he wants to. It’s not like there was ever any real competition.

Lestrade and his ilk turn out to be more palatable in their reactions than John had expected. After all, it had been a running joke for years. The humour’s sort of deflated now that it’s actually true. And Sherlock seems so uncharacteristically happy that he doesn’t even get annoyed with Anderson anymore. Lestrade looks as his smiling face and wonders out loud whether Holmes has finally, irrevocably lost it. He hasn’t. It’s quite the opposite. 

On a Thursday morning, when John heads to the kitchen, Sherlock passes him a cup of tea. Half of it is spilled moments later when Sherlock refuses to let him pass until they’ve had a proper snog. Somewhere halfway through, John opens his eyes when he hears a distinct electronic shutter sound. “Sherlock, what---“

Sherlock has John’s iPhone in hand and is straining his arms, admiring his handiwork.

John plonks the messy cup onto the kitchen table. “Sherlock Holmes, you did not just take a picture of us ---“

He doesn’t get a reply, as Sherlock is engrossed in typing something with the phone. John’s phone. “What are you –“ John tries to grab it but to no avail, damn Sherlock’s height and his longer arms. He shoots Sherlock an unappreciative glance, tugging his robe tighter as it had sort of loosened during all the commotion. It always seemed to do that with Sherlock around. He gives up and sighs. “Who’d you text?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock replies matter-of-factly, and stomps back into the kitchen to grab some toast. 

“Why?” He’d actually meant to ask if Sherlock really thought this was the most constructive way to inform Mycroft Holmes of their renegotiated terms of their flatshare arrangement. 

“Because he needs to know that this time,” Sherlock actually smirks at John, “Mycroft, the grand master of incessant meddling and pessimist advice was wrong.”

John’s couldn’t agree more. And he could never get enough of the evidence.

\---- The End ---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> It seems I’ve got a penchant for using women as a catalyst for John and Sherlock realizing certain home truths. I did that with Mary in a previous study and it’s the sister’s turn.
> 
> Part of the inspiration for this story came from a Steven Moffatt interview concerning “Sign of Three” where he stated that “[Sherlock would] really like to be a sociopath. But he’s so fucking not.” It seems evident that Sherlock is sometimes using his real of self-professed diagnoses as a crutch to avoid addressing certain things. Where all this comes from, I wanted to explore. Mycroft ended up being quite the villain but hopefully it shines through that I really like him as a character as well and he’s a lot of fun to write. 
> 
> The title comes from “A Scandal In Belgravia” – this is how Mycroft condescendingly describes Sherlock. Their mutual dynamic is fascinating: the acid way in which Sherlock addresses his older brother is much viler than the way in which Mycroft is treated in return. 
> 
>  
> 
> I am most grateful for the help I received from the lovely A and the brilliant whitchry9. They pointed out how quilty John was feeling, graciously helped me look for Sherlock’s pants and made me realize that the punctuation mark rules of the English language often completely elude me.
> 
>  
> 
> The writing process was accompanied by these mood-setting songs:  
> I Could Be – Kyla La Grange (this is bound to be one of the most beautiful songs ever written about unrequited love)  
> Cut Your Teeth – Kyla La Grange  
> Catalyst – Kyla La Grange  
> Raise The Dead – Kyla La Grange  
> Cannibals – Kyla La Grange  
> Lyssa – Kyla La Grange  
> Heavy Stone – Kyla La Grange  
> Drumming Song – Florence & The Machine  
> Graceless – The National  
> Available – The National  
> This Is The Last Time – The National  
> Thirsty – The National


End file.
